Beau Brocade by Baroness Emmuska Orczy (hardest books to read .txt) 📖

“Aye! but he knows I enjoy the honour of your confidence, good Sir Humphrey! Believe me, the letters would not be safe with me.”

“Adsbud!” said his Honour, firmly, “then I’ll have to find some one else to take care of those letters for me, and,” he added significantly, “to earn the two hundred guineas.”

Master Mittachip gave an anxious gasp. That two hundred guineas!!! the ultimate ambition of his sordid, miserable existence! No! he would not miss that! ... and yet he dreaded the Heath … and was in terror of Beau Brocade … and he dreaded his Honour’s anger ten thousand times more than either: that anger would be terrible if, having taken charge of the letters, he should be robbed of them.

The alternative was an awful one! He racked his tortuous brain for a likely issue. Sir Humphrey had risen, kicked his chair to one side, and made as if he would go.

“Now, harkee, friend Mittachip,” he said firmly, “I want those letters placed somewhere in absolute safety, where neither Lady Patience’s influence nor her chivalrous highwayman could possibly get at them. If you find a way and means of doing this for me, the two hundred guineas are yours. But if I have to manage this business myself, if I have to take the almost certain risk of being robbed of the letters, if I carry them about my own person, then you shall not get another shilling from me. Now you can think this matter over. I’ll across to speak to Squire West, and see if I can’t get that rascally highwayman captured and clapped into jail before the day is done.”

He took up his hat, and threw his coat over his arm. The situation was getting desperate.

Then suddenly Master Mittachip had an idea.

“I have it, Sir Humphrey,” he cried excitedly. “I have it! A perfectly safe way of conveying those letters to my strong room at Wirksworth!”

“Let’s have it, then.”

“I have bought some sheep of a farmer from over Aldwark way, for a client at Wirksworth. Here,” he added, pulling a paper out of his pocket and handing it up to Sir Humphrey, “is the receipt and tally for them. Jock Miggs—Master Crabtree’s shepherd—is taking the sheep of the town to-day. He’ll most likely put up for the night on the Heath.”

“Well?” queried Sir Humphrey.

“Well! Jock Miggs can neither read nor write.”

“Of course not.”

“Let us send him to Wirksworth and tell him to leave hte packet of letters at my house in charge of my clerk, Master Duffy, who will put it in the strong room until you want them. Duffy started for Wirksworth at daybreak this morning, and should be there by nightfall.”

“Pshaw, man! would you have me trust such valuable letters to a fool of a shepherd?”

“Nay, Sir Humphrey, but that is our safeguard. Beau Brocade never touches the poor or the peasantry, and certainly would never suspect Jock Miggs of being in your Honour’s confidence, whilst the ordinary footpads would take no count of him. He is worth neither powder nor shot.”

“That’s true enough!”

“I shall tell Miggs that the papers are accounts for the sheep, and promise him a silver crown if he delivers them safely at my door. We can put the letters in a sealed packet; no one would ever suspect him.”

There was silence in the inn parlour for awhile. His Honour stood with legs apart, opposite the tiny leaded window, gazing out into vacancy, whilst Master Mittachip fixed his eyes meditatively on the broad back of his noble patron. What a deal depended on what was going on at the present moment in Sir Humphrey’s active brain.

Suddenly his Honour turned on his heel.

“Odd’s fish, Master Mittachip,” he said, “but your plan is none so bad after all.”

The attorney heaved a deep sigh of relief, and began mopping his beady forehead. The tension had been acute. This lengthy, agitating interview had been extremely trying. So much hung in the balance, and so much had depended upon that very uncertain quantity, his Honour’s temper. But now the worst was over. Sir Humphrey was a man of determination, who never changed his mind once that mind was made up, and who carried any undertaking through with set purpose and unflinching will.

“Well! and when can I see that shepherd you speak of?” he asked.

“If your Honour would ride over on the Heath with me this afternoon,” suggested the attorney, “I doubt not that we should come across Jock Miggs and his sheep, and in any case he would be at the hut by nightfall.”

“Very good!” rejoined his Honour. “Do you see that a couple of horses be ready for us. We can start as soon as I have spoken with Squire West and laid my information against that d—d Beau Brocade. With a posse of soldiers at his heels he’s less likely to worry us, eh, old scarecrow?”

“We shall not be safe, your Honour,” assented worthy Master Mittachip, “until the rascal is dangling six feet above the ground. In the meanwhile,” he added, seeing that Sir Humphrey was making for the door, “your Honour will be pleased to give me back that receipt and tally for the sheep I showed you just now.”

But already his Honour was hurrying down the narrow passage, eager to get through the business that would lay his enemy by the heels, and render him safe in the possession of the important letters which were to secure him Lady Patience’s hand and fortune.

“All right!” he shouted back lustily, “it’s safe enough in my pocket. I’ll give it you back on my return.”

Left alone in the dingy, black-rafted parlour, Master Mittachip sat pondering for awhile, his pale, watery eyes blinking at times with the intensity of his satisfaction. Now for a little good luck—and he had no cause to fear the reverse—and that glorious vision of two hundred golden guineas would become a splendid reality. The advice he had given Sir Humphrey was undoubtedly the safest which he could offer. Beau Brocade, even with a posse of soldiers at his heels, was still a potent personality on the Heath, and it certainly looked as if her ladyship had cajoled him into her service. No one knew really who his friends and accomplices were: on and about Brassing Moor he could reckon on the help of most of the poorer villagers.

But Jock Miggs at any rate was safe, alike from the daring highwayman and the more humble footpad. The former would not suspect him, and the latter would leave a poor shepherd severely alone. The footpath from the hut by the roadside to the town of Wirksworth was but a matter of three or four miles, and for a silver crown the shepherd would be ready enough to take a sealed packet to the house of Master Mittachip in Fulsome Street.

Yes! it was all going to be for the best, in this best possible world, and as Master Mittachip thought over it all, he rubbed his thin, claw-like hands contentedly together.

Chapter XXII

An Interlude

The Packhorse Inn, lower down the village, was not nearly so frequented as was the Royal George. Its meagre, dilapidated appearance frightened most customers away. A few yokels only patronised it to the extent of sipping their small ale there, in the parlour when it was wet, or outside the porch when it was fine.

The few—very few—travellers, whom accident mostly brought to Brassington, invariably preferred the more solid, substantial inn on the green, but when it was a question of finding safe shelter for his wounded friend, John Stich unhesitatingly chose the Packhorse. He had improvised a rough kind of stretcher, with the help of the cushions from Lady Patience’s coach, and on this, with the aid of Timothy the groom, he had carried Bathurst all the way across two miles of Heath into Brassington. The march had been terribly wearisome: the wounded man, fevered with past excitement, had become light-headed, and during intervals of lucidity was suffering acutely from his wound.

Lady Patience could not bring herself to leave him. A feeling she could not have described seemed to keep her enchained beside this man, whom but a few hours ago she had never seen, but in whom she felt now that all her hopes had centred. He had asked her to trust him, and since then had only recovered consciousness to plead to her with mute, aching eyes not to take away that trust which she had given him.

Fortunately, the noted bad state of the roads on Brassing Moor, which at any time might prove impassable for the coach, had caused her to take her own saddle as part of her equipment for her journey to London. This John Stich had fixed for her on Jack o’ Lantern’s back, and the faithful beast, as if guessing the sad plight of his master, carried her ladyship, with Mistress Betty clinging on behind, with lamb-like gentleness down the narrow bridel path to Brassington.

Thomas, the driver, had been left in charge of the coach, with orders to find his way as quickly as may be along the road to Wirksworth.

It had been Bathurst’s firmly expressed wish that they should put up at Brassington, at any rate for the night. Besides being the nearest point, it was also the most central, whence a sharp lookout could be kept on Sir Humphrey Challoner’s movements. Everything depended now on how serious the young man’s wound turned out to be.

Patience felt that without his help she was indeed powerless to fight her cunning enemy. She was never for one moment in doubt as to the motive which prompted Sir Humphrey Challoner to steal the letters. He meant to hold them as a weapon over her to enforce the acceptance of his suit; this she knew well enough. Her instincts, rendered doubly acute by hte imminence of the peril, warned her that the Squire of Hartington meant to throw all scruples to the wind, and would in wanton revenge sacrifice Philip by destroying the letters, if she fought or defied him openly.

Patience bethought her of the scene at the forge, when Bathurst’s ready wit had saved her brother from the officious and rapacious soldiers: now that the terrible situation had to be met with keenness and cunning, she once more turned, with hope in her heart, to the one man who could save Philip again: but he, alas! lay helpless. And all along the weary way to Brassington she was listening with aching heart and throbbing temples to his wild, delirious words and occasional, quickly suppressed moans.

However, they reached the Packhorse at last in the small hours of the morning: money, lavishly distributed by Lady Patience, secured the one comfortable room in the inn for the wounded man.

As soon as the day broke John Stich went in quest of Master Prosser, the leech, a gentleman famed for his skill and learning. Already the rest on a good bed, and Lady Patience’s cool hand and gentle words, had done much to soothe the patient. Youth and an iron constitution quickly did the rest.

The leech pronounced the wound to be neither deep nor serious, and the extraction of the ball caused the sufferer much relief.

Within an hour after the worthy man’s visit, Jack Bathurst had fallen into a refreshing sleep, and at John Stich’s earnest pleading, Lady Patience had thrown herself on a bed in the small room which she had secured for herself and Mistress Betty, and had at last managed to get some rest.

The sun was already well up in the heavens when Jack awoke.